


How Strange to Dream

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Branding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mutual dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1860678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Montparnasse has a debt to settle with Javert. When he suddenly finds himself in possession of two prisoners in the Gorbeau house, the time has come to finish this business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Strange to Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Thanks to all miseres for trope/plot brainstorming and Miss M and voksen for suggestions; all remaining butchering of the trope is my own fault.

Cosette was safe. Even if he should die here, she would be safe. The thought was not as reassuring as it should be – at once, a dozen questions sprang up in Valjean's mind as he watched the band of ruffians turn to greet the man who had entered with his hat drawn. He knew that voice, which had made his heart clench with sudden fear. It was a voice that had followed him in his nightmares through the years.

Valjean sat very still, although inside he trembled. It was Javert. Javert, here, and he was bound, he could not run. He was found at last; he could not escape; what would become of Cosette? What if Thénardier found her after all? He had been too careless! What would Cosette do without him? Now all Javert need do was to turn his head and he would be recognized, he thought in despair, and even though the ruffians had greeted him with pistols and knives, certainly any moment now the room would be full of the police. At that thought Valjean strained against the rope that bound him once more – but Javert's gaze did not settle on him; there was no triumphant exclamation. Instead, Javert froze, and when Valjean watched, breathless with a fear that contracted like iron chains around his heart, another man came in behind Javert with his gun pointed at his head. Still Javert refused to back away, although Valjean, who had observed this man for so many years in Montreuil and thought of him with a shudder so many sleepless nights whenever there were noises in the streets, could read the tension in the way he held himself, the way large hands were grasping uselessly at air.

Javert's eyes were wide and wild. Valjean once more fought against the rope. If he could make his escape now, before he was seen... But the rope did not give, and at last he stilled, bound and helpless as he watched Javert face the men he must have hoped to apprehend.

Valjean had never seen Javert so unsettled before – at least not since that day when Javert had come to ask to be cast out, and even then, there had been a melancholy dignity to him. Now, Javert was very pale as he faced the ruffians that were armed with pistols, his body tense as his gaze swept the room again and again – but there was no escape, Valjean knew, whose hollow sou lay discarded and useless on the ground.

“No, no, you do not understand, Inspector.” The youth holding the gun wore the garb of a dandy; his velvet coat was tailored to accentuate his slim figure, although the fabric showed the traitorous gleam of wear at the elbows and tails. He pulled another gun from a pocket to hand it to one of the ruffians, then nodded towards the wall. “We had an audience, Babet. I suppose Thénardier did not even make certain that his neighbors were out – but never mind. His neighbor does not pose a problem now; indeed, as you can see, he brought presents. You will take care of him, once we are done here. I made certain that he will not escape while we are busy with our guests. I suppose this will take a while; pleasure should not be rushed, and a guest like this is always a pleasure.” The gun was pressed to Javert's brow then; the red lips of the youth twisted with pleasure before a delighted laugh escaped.

“Javert.” He spoke the word slowly, savoring it as he walked around the inspector to face him. “Yes; I remember your name very well, Inspector. Do you remember mine, I wonder? We have met before.”

Some of the tension seemed to leave Javert at that pronouncement – but then he drew himself up straight, stared at the pistol, and there was a sneer in his voice when he spoke. “I do not forget filth like you, Montparnasse. A pistol this time – did you not kill with a knife, the last time we met? Fine friends you have found yourself. I told you it would end badly with you. You would always remain filth; I would see to it that you would spend your life behind bars, where you belong. I knew that given freedom, you would choose to return to the filth; ah, I know your nature well.”

A hectic flush bloomed on the cheeks of the youth so insulted, and the fingers that held the pistol clenched a little tighter. Valjean, who had so far watched with some distraction, still contemplating the layout of the room and the window in case Javert's sudden entrance would give him an opportunity to flee, now grew alarmed at the sight. Had Javert brought no reinforcements? Where were his men? He had never known Javert to be slovenly or unprepared in his work – but if the inspector had walked unprepared into a trap, much like Valjean had, could he sit here and watch a man being shot?

The pistol was raised until it rested against Javert's forehead. Javert's hands tightened into fists, but he did not move. Again Valjean's gaze slid towards the window. They had bound him again, more securely this time, and still, if Javert created a diversion, if one of the men was careless enough to come closer–

"No more talk, Inspector." Montparnasse's voice was cold now, and there was a furious determination in it that made Valjean fear for a moment that he would shoot at the next insult. Again Valjean's muscles strained, and this time, he thought he could feel the rope give just the smallest fraction. 

"I grow weary of your voice. Oh, I have waited for this moment for a long time. You say you still remember me? But what reason have you to remember our encounter? No – I still remember _you_. I never forgot you. I always knew that one day, fate would make our paths cross again. You think you know my nature? I tell you, Inspector, I know yours. I know you, and I know your kind.”

Montparnasse took a step closer, the pistol still pressed to Javert's face, who was breathing hard, but did not move. “You do not like this very much, do you? The pistol in my hand; our roles reversed? Oh, you will not send me to jail today, Inspector. Maybe I will send  _you_ to jail. Yes. Yes, I like that thought. Why don't you strip for us, Inspector?"

Valjean's breath escaped all of a sudden, the sound one of dismay as he realized that no help was coming – Javert was tense, so still that Valjean half-feared that he would hurl himself at Montparnasse, to face death rather than what Valjean was beginning to fear was on the youth's mind.

"Strip!" A smile accompanied the repeat of the command, before the red lips twisted into a mocking pout. "You will not obey? Ah, but you have heard me very well, old man. Take off your clothes, all of them. Let us see you stand before us, let us see you the way they make the prisoners stand to be searched. You know the way."

"I will not," Javert said, his voice very quiet, but firm. Valjean could see more sweat beading at his nape when the gun was pressed harder against his brow, but still Javert refused to move.

"Strip." Montparnasse's voice was soft this time, little more than a hiss. There was something of the animal in it – a warning, a threat, the snake ready to strike – and Javert swallowed, his hands tightening to fists that remained helpless, powerless by his side. His hands shook when he finally raised them to his chest to open button after button, and Valjean exhaled with quiet relief to see Javert play along at last. Still – how much time would this buy? Where were his men?

“You should leave. If the police is not here yet, they will soon arrive.” Valjean had not wanted to speak, for while the ruffians were all distracted by Javert, there would never be a better opportunity to escape his kidnappers. What did he care if the man who had hunted him for so long was given a taste of what it felt like to be bound in chains? And yet, although he knew that he should run, he also knew that he could not remain silent and watch an injustice, even if it was done to Javert, who by his own actions had condoned a thousand injustices and more. The desire to save a child had brought him to the Gorbeau house once more; that had been a ruse of Thénardier, but in the end, it was all the same. Chance had decreed that here, he would find another soul in need, another life to save, and though it was the life of his hunter, was it not still a life, and thus worthy of rescue?

At his words, Montparnasse turned his head, although he still kept the pistol pointed at Javert. Javert's reaction, on the other hand, was more violent – despite the weapon aimed at him, he whipped around, his face a mask of white rage and shock.

"Valjean," he said, and then he was silent, although his breathing was labored, as if it took great effort to remain where he stood instead of launching himself at the man he had hunted for so long. Valjean watched the terrible satisfaction that made his eyes light up for a moment vanish beneath a wave of fury when he realized the truth of his situation once more. Javert shuddered with effort. He was not made for helplessness; never had that been more obvious than in this instant where he stood rooted to the spot, the sound of his heavy breathing filling the room, his hands clenched to fists once more. Valjean would not have been surprised had Javert decided to hurl himself at him, forgetting the true danger of those men who had their weapons pointed at him, yet in this, at least, Javert showed some restraint, and although his gaze was filled with shock and a gloating satisfaction, he did not move.

"I should have known. Where else would a man like you hide, after all? Like always finds like," Javert said, his teeth clenched together, so that his face was not unlike the grimace of a snarling dog. "Yes; yes, of course; where would you hide but here, with the filth of the streets?"

"Javert, I am bound, as you can see." Valjean's gaze shied away from Javert's face to look at their captors. They were still watching Javert, he realized in surprise, and then wondered what that might mean, for Thénardier's words had made it obvious that this had been a trap designed for him. And yet, for now it seemed to bring greater satisfaction to these men to have captured a member of the police force, and it seemed that without Thénardier's presence and his promise of hidden riches, these men who had devoted their lives to crime might care more about Javert than about Valjean's fate.

The thought did not give him much hope, for he was still bound, and Javert was no ally. Javert would sooner attack him than their captors, if there was an opportunity, he thought, and once more tested the rope that held him.

The pistol was shoved hard against Javert's brow again. "You know that man? Ah, it does not surprise me; Thénardier said that the old man is a con. You must have run into each other before. Well,  _Valjean_ ; maybe we will give you entertainment as well as your life in exchange for some of those riches Thénardier claims you have hidden away."

Javert clenched his jaw. He did not move despite the gun pressed to his skin; his eyes still rested on Valjean's face with a terrible delight, as if the joy of having found his prey once more overcame even the danger of his situation. "Oh, we have run into each other before, Valjean, have we not? And you have run, and run, and tried to hide. But I have found you again; in the end, you could not hide from me. Soon you will return to jail, where you belong. No more escape; no more tales of pity and mercy."

Montparnasse laughed, although he still kept the weapon aimed firmly at Javert, who seemed to be the greater danger in his mind. "Both a fraud and a con then, Valjean? No, that is no surprise. Thénardier knew you had secrets worth a nice sum. Why have we not heard of you before?" He took a step back then, although his pistol was still aimed at Javert's head, who tensed even more as he looked at Valjean. Again Valjean wondered if Javert might try to seize him despite the threat of the pistol.

"But I am not interested in what other enemies you have made, Javert. No; today is for my own revenge. I was just a child when you sent me to prison; did they tell you that they could not even keep me in for a week?" There was something almost approaching pleasure in the way Montparnasse pronounced his name, and Javert's gaze left Valjean's face at last to quickly slide towards the door. There, another man had taken up position, and clenched his hand around a cudgel.

"Strip. I will not ask again. The next time, Babet will see if you will listen better after a taste of pain. Or maybe we will see how you like it to be branded? Thénardier left an iron in the fire, after all, and we should not waste it. It is not a pleasant experience, Inspector, as your friend there can attest. So I suggest you take off your clothes – now."

Javert's lips parted slightly. He did not look at Valjean, although the shocked whiteness of his face gave way for a hectic flush. “I will not. Shoot, if you have to. The sound will summon my men. And this time you will not get away, Montparnasse. This time it will not be La Force.”

The youth scowled. “Babet, Gueulemer. Hold him.”

Javert tensed, breathing heavily as the men came closer. Montparnasse still held the weapon pointed at his face. The air escaped in a shuddered exhalation as their hands wrapped around his arms, pulling them back with careless brutality to hold him motionless. Valjean froze with the same horror he imagined Javert was feeling when Montparnasse approached, the elegant, nimble fingers keeping a tight grip on the pistol. The youth tilted his head, his smile widened when a breathless sound of rage escaped Javert, and then he reached out to take hold of Javert's hat and idly turned it in his hand, inspecting it with the same airs of a gentleman who had just entered a hat-makers showroom.

“A little old-fashioned, Inspector – what do you say, would it suit me?”

He sat the hat onto his dark curls, tilted his head just so, raised a brow at the ruffians that held Javert immobile. At the lack of a reaction, the red mouth narrowed, the gleaming eyes slid up and down the tall body before him, taking the measure of this agent of the police who was now his prisoner.

“A fine hat, and I thank you for your generous gift. I fear your coat is not quite up to my standard though. Let us take a look at his shirt instead.”

Again Javert exhaled audibly, panting now, sweat gleaming on his face, but still the pistol was pointed at him. Despite his earlier words, Valjean was relieved to see that he remained standing motionless when ungentle hands pulled the greatcoat from his tall frame, although another shudder ran through him when those same hands moved to the buttons of his waistcoat.

“One moment, please,” Montparnasse said, his mouth curving into another small smile. Again he stepped forward, and this time, when he reached out, Javert tried to flinch back. Again he was held, and Valjean beheld a short struggle until at last Javert stilled once more, tense and unable to escape when the men that held him twisted his arms until his pants for air turned into pained little grunts.

Valjean looked towards the door again, but then Montparnasse rested his slender fingers against Javert's waistcoat with a pout of distaste. “So drab, so worn! What a waste – but then, what did I expect? That has to go as well, Babet, let us inspect his shirt instead.”

This time, when rough fingers began to work on the small buttons, Javert began to struggle, and Valjean tensed once more, flexed his muscles against the rope that bound him, biding his time. Certainly, if Javert distracted them now – and then there was the sound of ripping fabric, an angry shout from Javert followed by a fist to his stomach so that he stood hunched in on himself, Montparnasse's pistol pressed to his brow once more. The hat still sat on the youth's locks as he watched with quiet, grim pleasure as the men stripped the Inspector, ripping open waistcoat and shirt instead of bothering with the buttons now.

"Come now, Inspector. A prisoner cannot afford modesty; certainly you know that." Montparnasse's face was alight with a fierce, cruel pleasure now; he took Javert's hat into his hand once more to lightly turn it, as if to show off to the Inspector once more who it was that held his fate in his hands.

Javert's chest was heaving. The flush had spread from his face to his neck, his head was bowed, and Valjean, who watched with mounting horror, could see that his eyes were closed in order to bear the ordeal more easily. When the shirt was dropped to the floor as well, Javert tensed one last time, another groan escaping as he swayed, subdued by the strength of the men holding him. Still Valjean thought of escape, and yet his gaze slid back from the door to Javert once more when they pulled off his trousers as well. 

Valjean's horror turned to shocked pity. Once, Javert had stood before him shaken, but still filled with a quiet dignity, a man who had come to meet his fate unflinchingly. Now, robbed of his clothing and with it, all authority, Javert was reduced to a display, to be mocked by the youth who held both of them captive.

Valjean kept his eyes on Javert's chest, thinking to grant him dignity at least in this, but then Montparnasse stepped closer again, his eyes traveling up and down Javert's naked body with open hatred.

"There, the infamous Inspector Javert – not so impressive now. No, not impressive at all. What fate would await you at La Force, I wonder?" Once more Montparnasse smiled, his eyes alight with pleasure. "Ah, I do not need to tell you; you know it as well as I. Or do you? Perhaps a small demonstration is in order. A man like you does not know what goes on behind bars, perhaps; and of course, that is understandable, dear Inspector. Well, this is an experience any of us here would be happy to share with you. Even your friend the convict over there probably has a tale of his own to share."

The man clutching the cudgel took a step towards them, and Valjean tensed. Almost he could smell the salt on the air, hear the cries of gulls – hear other cries at night, the misery of the imprisoned mind that turned to what dark pleasures could be found in a place that was bent on turning men into beasts.

He looked at the men surrounding them, saw that darkness of the soul look back at him from eyes grown callow and uncaring. He had no desire to hurt one of them; earlier, before Javert had entered, he had become resigned to the fact that he might die in this place. Cosette was safe; there was nothing they could have done to him, for that was all he feared in this world. Now, though, there was another to think of. And what the youth's words suggested horrified him with the memories of cold brutality they woke.

Those memories stemmed from Toulon. He had been too strong, too dangerous to ever suffer in such a way; too cold, to disinterested in anything but his hate to ever make another suffer so, and he was grateful that God had spared him that hell. Javert, too, had served at Toulon; Javert, too, had patrolled in the night when shadows turned men into beasts and convicts turned into jailers of their own brother. He, too, had heard the cries. He knew what their captor was talking of – how could he not, when that boy had stripped him of his dignity, reduced him to vulnerable nakedness?

Javert's head turned. His lips were pale, his eyes dark with a helpless fury – but the way he held himself carefully still betrayed his fear, for even now, two pistols were aimed at his head. He met Valjean's gaze, and Valjean wondered if at last, the immeasurable hatred Javert seemed to feel for him had been overcome by what this group of ruffians was threatening him with.

"It is such a long wait, and I am bored." The youth affected a yawn. "Indeed I had plans for the theater today – curse Thénardier for thinking up such a ruse and then running when the play does not go according to the script. Bah, he hired the wrong actors; the convict thinks himself playing the role of the martyr; the inspector – the inspector plays the fool, I think, but I rather miss the humor of his role. Come, inspector, cheer us up; this performance is severely lacking. As director of this theater, I demand a different play; see, the audience grows restless, and they have paid well! Our inspector shall play the role of the convict today, I think. Famous inspector Javert; every gamin runs when he approaches! But not today. No, today he is the convict, and you–" He turned to gesture elegantly towards Valjean with his other hand, "You may play the role of the inspector, if you so please. Or stay a convict, it matters not. But we demand entertainment, and seeing Javert brought low will please the audience. Doubtlessly, my friend, you have experience in such things; you are strong, yes, look at those arms, those shoulders. You know what you are doing; you know how these things go. Do not be shy. I will demand no additional sum, no; think of this as a free gift; an offer to make up for the lengthy day."

Pleased with his monologue, Montparnasse sat, although he kept the pistol firmly aimed at Javert's head, who had flushed red with rage and humiliation, and yet had not moved. Montparnasse gestured at the man by the window.

"Free our guest the convict, Babet – and do not forget, monsieur," Montparnasse added amiably, "despite this favor I am doing you, you are and will remain our guest, and these bullets will just as easily pierce your heart as that of our dear inspector."

Valjean did not answer, horrified at the suggestion. Javert was still staring at him – and now, Valjean realized with sudden, pained surprise, there were equal amounts rage and fear in his gaze. Did Javert truly fear him?

Javert ground his teeth as he stared at him, then spoke hastily when Babet rose. “You may kill me; yes, you shall have to. If you make that man touch me like – like a depraved, a – a beast, a filthy–” He ground his teeth, a sound of frustration escaping as he stared at Valjean, his eyes wild. “Yes, kill me rather than that. I will give you no sport. I refuse, do you hear me?”

Montparnasse smiled – almost, it seemed, with pleasure. “Ah, but good inspector, you cannot refuse. And a death is so quick; no, the audience demands a performance for their money. Leave the con for now, Babet. See if you can convince the inspector to play his role, and play it well.”

Javert's nostrils flared when the man walked from the window towards the fire and took hold of the tong that had rested in the embers. Valjean shuddered, glancing again towards the door, and Javert took a step back instinctively when Babet approached, then stopped again when Montparnasse raised his pistol. Valjean could see the trembling of Javert's fingers – every muscle was tense, like an animal poised to flight as the hunter approached, and yet, Javert could not flee, not with two pistols aimed at his head. Valjean watched as the man approached with the glowing iron, thinking again of the door. A few steps was all it would take.

He could see the muscles of Javert's back tense even more – but Montparnasse, too, must have seen the growing tension. His pistol still raised, he nodded towards Babet. "Make your decision, Inspector. I am bored, and so are my friends. You know what we want. If the convict is not to your liking, perhaps you would prefer Gueulemer over there? It's your choice, Javert. I am nothing but generous. You can have your pick."

Javert's jaw clenched. "My choice is still the same," he said, his head held high. His voice did not waver, even though the heated iron was carried closer. "Death rather than giving you that satisfaction."

Montparnasse's lips twisted into a well-rehearsed pout. "I already told you. That is no option; we do demand our entertainment, Inspector!"

Javert took a step backwards. The sweat on his skin reflected the red heat of the iron. Valjean could see Javert's fingers grasp helplessly at empty air, reaching for a weapon that was not there. One of the other men came up behind him; a blow with a cudgel to his head; Javert stumbled another step backward. Blood dripped from his brow; there was a table in the way and he stumbled again, dazed; then all of a sudden iron touched skin, the stench of burning meat, a cry–

And Valjean was free, his skin bleeding where the rope had chafed until it tore, no match against the force of his despair. With three steps, he found himself next to Javert, who had half crumpled over the table, his face a mask of sweat and tears and agony as the man held the glowing iron to his arm.

There was no pain when Valjean gripped the gleaming metal once more to push it away from Javert's skin. The roar of his own blood was loud in his ears like the tide rushing in, but it did not bring memories of Toulon. The scent of iron and burning skin brought with it a strange clarity; if he thought of anything at all, it was the flames of candles. There was no fear, and no pain. He did not wonder at it later; then, as well as now, there was no thought to be spared for contemplation.

The man's grip on the iron lessened as he stared at Valjean in confusion and disbelief. They had seen him burn himself before; but now, risen from the bed to which he had been so securely tied, to take hold of the iron once more and grasp it in his fingers as though he did not feel pain, although the stench of burned skin filled the room, he must have seemed like the devil himself. The man released the iron and stumbled backwards; Valjean once more threw the glowing metal aside before he leaned down to look at Javert's wound, ignoring the pistol that was still aimed at him.

Javert's skin was pale with shock; his face gleamed with tears forced from him by the torment of the brand. The sweat on his brow was cold when Valjean touched him with his unburned hand.

"Javert." He spoke softly, as if he were addressing a wounded animal. "Javert, I mean you no harm."

A shudder ran through the man, and Valjean took a step back as he suddenly became aware of Javert's nakedness once more. Javert's mouth opened, but no sound come out as he stared at Valjean. After a long moment, Javert's eyes were drawn to Valjean's hand where they lingered for long heartbeats, then, at last, Javert flinched. His eyes quickly returned to Valjean's face, and for the first time, Valjean thought that he saw that unshakable certainty within Javert crumble.

"Ah, you are a right Hercules!” The youth's voice was slightly breathless, but when Valjean raised his head, he saw that the pistol was still firmly aimed at his head.

“Never mind, monsieur; Babet would have freed you anyway. And I warn you, your hands will not stop a bullet. If you want to live to see your daughter, you will not try such a thing again."

Valjean nodded slowly, to show that he had understood. He was free of the ropes; another opportunity would come in time. Then he looked down at Javert once more, whose eyes were closed, his chest heaving; he had curled in a little on himself, clutching the angry, red patch on his arm where the iron had marked him – just as Valjean had been marked, so long ago.

There was no satisfaction in observing the man's pain. For that was what he was, Valjean thought as he looked at Javert, naked and helpless in all his fury, hurting and hating. No, Toulon turned men to beasts. All men, even this one, yet even so, in his fury and his pain at his impotence, he was as human as any other man, as undeserving of death or torment.

"Well then, go on." Montparnasse gestured again with the pistol. "You have made your choice. You want him, I have seen you eye him. You know him. I saw it immediately. Did he send you to jail? Has he caught you before? There is little as sweet as revenge, I know it all too well. In any case, it does not matter; as I said, your revenge will be free to you, or at least come only at the cost of our entertainment."

When Valjean remained where he stood, breathing slowly, calmly, the youth's eyes narrowed. "You try my patience. You can do it, or Babet will. You should be grateful for my offer."

There was a soft groan then, and when Valjean turned to look at Javert, he saw that he had managed to push himself up, although he still clutched his arm. His skin was very pale, and the expression on his face was terrible, but Valjean noted that there was still some of that stunned disbelief in his eyes that for a moment seemed to soften his face a little as his eyes lingered on Valjean's burned hand. He shook his head slightly; his eyes slowly traveled upwards, met Valjean's – then he whipped his head around to stare at Montparnasse.

"You will not leave the galleys again," he said, and this time his voice trembled from rage. "Let the convict do it then. But do not doubt me, Montparnasse. I know who you are. I know all of your friends – yes, even you, Babet, Gueulemer – and I will see all of you in the galleys, for life."

Valjean settled a hand on Javert's back. Javert's words filled him with terror. How could he contemplate such a thing? Javert shuddered at his touch, and he flinched, but there was no stopping now. Two pistols were aimed at them, and the rest of their audience was aimed with cudgel, knife and meat axe. Where were Javert's men? Better to spend the rest of his life in the galleys than become – this.

Valjean could hear the way Javert's breathing sped up as he waited. The muscles beneath his hand were tense, the skin cold and clammy with sweat. Again he argued with himself, tried to find a way out of this – but he could see none. He could not think of any other option, not when it had been made so very clear to both of them that any other path would either lead to Javert's death or his rape by another member of this gang of villains.

Javert took a deep, shuddering breath, then the fight seemed to leave him. He did not relax – his muscles were still tense and hard against Valjean's skin – but he gave in to his fate, resting his head on the table in tired, angry surrender. "Do it then," he said, and after a moment, when Valjean did not move, "do it, I said! You must know how it works. You must have waited for this. And you have waited longer for this than Montparnasse."

"Javert," he said, then swallowed. He did not dare to look back as he opened his trouser, pressed closer, leaned over Javert in that position that was familiar and yet new to him, that was abhorrence and somehow still felt natural, despite the brutality of what these men wanted him to do.

"I only have myself to blame," Javert pressed out from clenched teeth, and Valjean, deeply disturbed, could do no more than rest a hand on his shoulder in what felt to him a mockery of gentleness. Certainly a man about to do what he planned to do could hold no pretensions of gentleness – and yet nevertheless, at his touch Javert ceased to speak; his head turned slightly so that he could look at Valjean's hand once more, and his eyes were wide and dark with panic and a sudden, strange disbelief again.

Javert exhaled, then clenched his eyes shut. "Just do it," he said again, and even though Valjean knew that this terrible surrender was brought about by a threat not of his own making, it tore at him as if the men had driven a dagger into his heart. To be used as a weapon against another man – was that in its own way not just as terrible as doing this out of base lusts, that old, filthy mix of hate and callowness?

"Spare me your apologies," Javert said very softly when he leaned forward to speak. “Do you want me to ask for it, Valjean? They would like that. Very well then. Do it. Please. I – I prefer that to – to them.” He sounded very tired now. Valjean looked at the back of his neck, saw the small, fine hair at his nape damp and dark with sweat. He could smell the fear on Javert. He wondered if he stank of fear as well, wondered if those men would smell it on him, wondered if they would both be shot after all, or if someone would pull him away to take his place–

He swallowed. His hand trembled slightly where it rested on Javert's back. He pulled it away, suddenly ashamed, then curled his fingers around himself to awkwardly try to coax his soft cock to hardness.

It was not easy. The sparse occasions when he touched himself, he did not think of much. He had little experience of touch and less of kindness; the release he gave himself was quick and tiring and left him empty and vaguely ashamed.

Now, he hunted desperately for images which might make this easier. He could not find any. Had there ever been a girl he had looked at with desire, before? He could not remember. Before was several lifetimes ago, and Toulon's salt and mildew had bleached the past from him until his memories were sheaves of bone-white paper. Nothing of desire was inscribed on them – nothing to help with this.

He stroked himself roughly, quickly, his hand slapping against Javert's thigh every now and then with a sound that made him cringe. There was the creak of wood behind him; he imagined one of them stepping up to take his place, and the thought of one of them bent over Javert, himself forced to watch, was so abhorrent that he faltered for a moment, then tightened his fingers until it was almost painful, his eyes returning to Javert's nape, lingering on a drop of sweat, a strand of hair bleached gray by the years that had passed. Maybe it would have been better to watch, he thought with a shudder as he slowly hardened at the mechanical stimulation. Maybe it would have been better–

"Hurry up." The boy's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He could hear the sound of his own breathing – there was the rush of his own blood in his ears like a storm, no, like the sound of the waves crashing against the shore as he spat into his hand, Javert tense beneath him, and he wished, heartbroken and desperate, that there was another way, that they would not use this man to turn him into the sort of man who would have deserved the time in Toulon.

Javert was very quiet when he forced himself inside. It felt good; that was the worst of it. Javert was so tight it almost hurt, so hot, so good the way his hand had never been that he felt sickened by the shudder that ran through him as he slowly sank inside him. Javert did not move, but he could see from the tenseness of his shoulders and the way his fingers clenched that he was in pain.

It horrified him, that his body could experience this as pleasure, and then Javert exhaled and the sound was a groan, a choked curse, wet with swallowed tears.

Valjean closed his eyes and remained motionless, shuddering again at the magnitude of this crime. He could feel a sudden wetness on his own cheeks, and then, after a long moment, there was the warmth of Javert's breath against his skin. When he opened his eyes at last, Javert's face was very close. His eyes were wide and uncertain, but he could see no hate in them, and then Javert's arm moved, his hand clasping Valjean's wrist, turning it to reveal the burned skin. “Valjean.” He breathed heavily, held Valjean's gaze for another heartbeat. “I – I don't know why...” He stopped, swallowed, then a shiver ran through him, and Valjean shivered with him when the sensation brought the unexpected, hot flush of pleasure with it. “I don't know why you did that,” Javert then said, his voice rough with more than tears. “I – but it does not matter now. Do it; they will hurt both of us otherwise.”

Valjean lowered his head until he felt the brush of Javert's hair against his forehead. “I cannot,” he said. “Javert, forgive me, I can't, not this–”

And then Javert made a low sound of despair, and he moved, pushed back ever so slightly so that Valjean had to swallow a moan and force himself to hold still. Javert's head turned so that he could see his face once more, the lips pressed together, the marks left by his teeth, his eyes closed tightly against the tears that had nevertheless welled up. Valjean realized he was still weeping as well, because this should not feel so good, because he should not know what it felt like to be pressed inside Javert, to feel the vulnerability of heat within, to feel him stretch and give and pant at this surrender that was taken from him, that he would never have given voluntarily.

"Valjean, just – end it quickly. Please." Javert raised a hand to his face, rubbed at his tears with trembling fingers while Valjean watched. Then his hips arched very slightly off the table and he covered his own mouth with his hand, bit his knuckles, and even so there was no mistaking the sound he made, and Valjean felt himself throb in response inside him, imagined himself growing, stretching, filling Javert even deeper until he could force that sound from his lips again. He hated the thought, he knew he shouldn't, he should have rather chosen to die than let them force him to do this – but then, there still would have been no escape for Javert, and the thought of one of this band of murderers brutalizing Javert when it had been in his power to stop it was unbearable. No; after this, Javert would see him returned to the galleys, and Javert would at least have the satisfaction of justice for what he had been made to do to him.

Javert looked stunned and beaten as he lay there beneath him. Some of the blood had mixed with the tears on his cheeks. For one moment, Valjean faltered again. How could he do this? But then once more Javert's hips moved, arching just a tiny fraction, and yet he still slid deeper inside, feeling himself groan at the same time as Javert's lips parted, and he had no words for the sound he made. There was despair in it, just as there was despair in his own voice, and beneath it all that stunned disbelief at how good this felt, this greatest betrayal, that he should do this to Javert and be able to feel need, that Javert should move and gasp for breath and cry and still move against him, a stranger still as he had always been though at long last the hunt had come to a close, although Javert had been caught, not Valjean, Javert was spread out like a sacrifice and it was Valjean they had summoned to be his executioner...

The sounds Javert made were almost sobs – soft, wet, choked noises as his hands grappled at the table's surface, his nails carving marks into the wood, his hips rising up despite himself to meet Valjean's thrusts.

"Just finish it," he begged, then added "Valjean," his voice very soft, as if his name was plea enough, and Valjean, who had never heard it spoken like this before, drew back, then pushed back in, one hand on Javert's hips now to hold him in place, to hold him perfectly angled to draw more of those desperate sounds from him, sounds that Javert would rather die than repeat after this, but this was all he had, this was the only thing he could cling to, that illusion that Javert felt pleasure, not pain, that this wasn't– that he wasn't–

His other hand clenched around Javert's shoulder despite the pain of where the iron had burned his skin. Javert reached out, took hold of it, his own fingers curling around Valjean's wrist like a manacle, long fingers folding around scarred, old skin but there was no menace in this, no threat, not even possessiveness anymore.

He spent himself like that, eyes on Javert's nape where short, thin hairs stuck to the damp skin. His queue looked disheveled, so that he ached with an inexplicable longing to reach out and retie it even as he panted through his pleasure.

As soon as he was done, shame rushed in to fill the void that insidious pleasure had left. When he pulled out, softening now, sticky with his own spend, some of it smeared against Javert's thigh who shuddered tiredly. Javert had not found releas e. Javert was still tense, and Valjean, who knew the humiliation of knowing himself exposed and utterly beaten, rested a tentative hand on his back. He knew he should not...

He paused when he felt the cold opening of the pistol against his brow. "A good show; I applaud you,  messieurs . That is, I would, had I both hands free. But I am certain that you will believe me if I say that your show was pleasing enough Now, Inspector, I think you might not have enjoyed your role as much as the convict did – but then, such is the hand fate dealt you. We cannot always win. Some of us have been born to our lot; the gutter brings forth nothing but degenerates and filth, is that not what you told me? But then, I wonder, what do you know of the gutter?"

Montparnasse moved forward, and Javert froze, still breathing heavily when the pistol was pressed against his head next.

"Your last lesson for today, I think, Inspector. Had someone bought your performance with coin, they would expect more of an effort to please. Let me give you another opportunity to learn such skills then. Our convict can hardly tuck himself into his trousers like this. You see, he is a man of some refinement – look at that waistcoat; look at that fine wool. Go on, clean him.”

Montparnasse drew back to gesture with the pistol, and Valjean could feel Javert tense once more. “I want to see you on your knees, Inspector, with a convict's cock in your mouth. Who knows – you might even find you enjoy it. It has been a very convincing performance so far."

Javert rose very slowly. What arousal there had been had vanished at the  youth's words, but he did not protest. It had to be hard to protest, Valjean thought, feeling faint, when there was cold metal pressed to your brow, and then he did not think at all when Javert's mouth closed around him, strangely sweet and earnest in his surrender, his eyes closed against the humiliation he could not fight. There was a dignity in it, almost; Javert did not plead, did not speak, his face gave away no emotion. But one of his hands rested lightly against Valjean's thigh, and Valjean could feel the slight trembling of his fingers. He did not know where to look; he could not look at Javert, he could not look at the man who had forced him to do this either, and so he stared at the wall, ignoring the tentative, wet slide of a hot tongue against his cock. 

Javert was quick about it, which was a mercy. Hating this, hating these men, did not make the huffs of hot air against his spent prick any easier to bear. Valjean was glad that Montparnasse did not protest when Javert drew back at last, and his soft prick was wet with Javert's saliva only.

Valjean locked down; Javert did not look up. Valjean shuddered, knew what that wetness gleaming on Javert's lips was, felt for one terrible moment a hot, shameful flash of curiosity – then he reached out, not thinking, just reacting, when Javert's eyes closed and his head slumped against him. Blood was still trickling from the wound at his brow, and Valjean, hating this sudden feeling of responsibility almost as much as he hated what he had done, gripped his shoulder, murmured, "Stand. Go on, Javert. Stand. Stay awake."

Montparnasse was watching still, the gun in his hand aimed at them as he leaned against the table, although he was careful to keep the velvet of his coat away from where the table was stained with fluids. Valjean took note of that, just as he took note of how the youth's grip on the pistol had relaxed a little, and the way the man by the door had wandered over towards where the one who had dealt Javert that blow stood.

Javert did not sway, although there was a dazed look in his eyes, and he did not speak. Again Valjean glanced towards the door. Javert's closeness made him shudder; so close still was the man that he could feel the heat of his body, worse – so close that the heat his body exuded woke memories, and this was knowledge no man should ever have possessed, memories of the heat of his mouth, the heat of his body, the long, reluctant slide inside–

He glanced towards the door again, then towards the still burning fire as his despair rose. Javert was no help. If they wanted to kill him now, let them kill him – and yet. And yet there was Cosette, and his heart clenched as he imagined Thénardier finding her by some ill chance. How would she live without him? Who would care for her? How long would what money there was in the house last, when he had had no time to make provisions–

A shot. Instinct made him drop to the floor, pulling Javert with him. His head whipped up – but Montparnasse was gone, Montparnasse had not fired the pistol; instead there the men now stood, arguing by the window, until another shot resounded and Montparnasse was the first to climb out with astonishing dexterity for a young man wrapped so tightly in too many layers of velvet and wool.

Valjean did not wait to see what the other men might decide. Any moment, one of them might realize that to lose their hostage would be to lose whatever money must have been promised them; to hesitate even a heartbeat longer could mean discovery, which would most probably mean death for Javert.

Valjean clutched him close. Javert did not resist, not even when Valjean stopped for one moment to bend down, retrieving the greatcoat he had been forced to discard earlier.

There was no time to help Javert dress, or even to pick up the shirt and the trousers that still laid scattered near the table. Javert hesitated a moment when Valjean kept pulling him towards the door, his lips parting as if to protest, but then he lowered his head when Valjean hastily wrapped the coat around him, and dazedly helped it tightly around himself.

Even though the door was close, they might not have made it – from the corner of his eye, Valjean saw someone coming towards them, saw a reddened face, the rusty iron of that meat-axe raised high – and then the door flew open, people in uniform spilled in, and for a moment there was once again a gun against his breast until Javert raised a hand, still leaning heavily against his shoulder as he pushed the gun away with a blood-stained hand.

Valjean listened to the loud drum of his heartbeat. Now, it was truly too late for escape. Any moment now, Javert would motion for one of the policemen to put handcuffs on him, would arrange to have him brought to the nearest station, would have him sent to the galleys again – no, sentenced to death, yes, and death was what he deserved for that assault, that crime. But what of Cosette, what would she do if–

"Get my clothes," Javert said brusquely, and then managed to pull away and stand on his own for one long moment, while more of his men filed in and surrounded what was left of the ruffians by the window.

Valjean could see Javert sway as he bent to pick up the shirt and trousers. His skin was very pale; blood was still dripping down his face from the wound, trickling into his sideburns to clump the hair together. He stood; reluctance made him walk slowly, but walk he did, carrying the clothes to Javert while he waited for the word, the command that would come with the sound of iron and bitterness and the return to slavery – but no sound came.

Instead, Javert sagged again, his face even paler now although he managed to clutch the clothes to his chest. Valjean glanced towards the door again, then released a shuddering breath when he found it blocked by a stern-faced man in uniform.

"He should see a doctor right away," Valjean said, and prayed that the tremor in his voice would be blamed on the shock of what these men must suspect to be an ordinary robbery of a bourgeois. "Indeed, he saved me. I promised him to come with him straight away and deliver my report, so that he could put an end to the crimes committed by these men. Monsieur, you can see that these men wounded the Inspector; might we leave straight away to go to the station house?"

"Inspector Javert... Certainly," the man said, and even though his eyes glanced curiously at the clothes in Javert's hand, he seemed unsettled enough by the blood on Javert's face, and reassured by the quality of the clothes Valjean wore, that they managed to leave. Valjean was filled with deep unease, still waiting for Javert to say the word. He kept stealing glances at his face as they pressed past the police man and walked a few steps down the corridor until they came to an open door, but Javert did not speak. Instead, he seemed even more exhausted; his eyes had fallen half closed, and though the bleeding seemed to have stopped, Valjean wondered whether he would be able to stand.

"I will dress," Javert said. "You will –" He raised a hand to his face, then winced; when he lowered his hand to stare at the blood on his fingers, it was almost with disbelief, as if he had forgotten what had come to pass. "You will... wait, Valjean..."

Valjean caught him when he fell. He ground his teeth as he pulled him up into his arms; there was another twinge of guilt at the touch. But what else was there to do? With the instinct of the hunted, he wanted to run, to fetch Cosette, to hide in another street, another apartment until his heart would no longer be filled with fear and he would not have to lead the life of a ghost again, never to leave his rooms while the sun was yet in the sky.

Javert would not suffer, should he leave him here, he thought in despair. The Gorbeau house was full of the police; Javert would be safe enough, and he should take this chance of escape.

Instead, he gritted his teeth, carried him down rickety stairs, past suspicious faces that relaxed once they recognized the Inspector, and deposited him at last in a fiacre.

\---

Javert's brow was clammy with sweat. His hair rested in tangles on the rough-spun pillow. Valjean kept his fingers resting lightly against his skin for a moment, wondering what had once more driven him to come here, to see this man who had never treated him as anything more than a beast. And to him, for so long, Javert had seemed like little more than a ghost of the past, the sum of all the heartless cruelty he had known for 19 long years – nothing human seemed to have ever stirred in his heart, if indeed that man possessed a heart at all.

And yet, now that this man had been forced to suffer the miseries that Valjean had once known, if only by cries and rough voices from other cells, he could no longer deny that this man was in fact in possession of a heart – a heart that had known fear and the breathless terror of helplessly awaiting a fate that could not be escaped. A heart that had looked at him after, filled with pain and exhaustion, and yet had decided to not have him dragged away in chains.

“The laudanum should make him sleep through the night,” the doctor said as he stood. “I will come to see how the burns fare tomorrow. If there is anything else..."

"No," Valjean said, pulling his hand away from Javert's brow. At the same moment, Javert's hand shot out and clamped around his wrist.

"Yes," Javert said, blinking against the effects of the drug. "Yes, damn you. If you – if you can make him drug me, if you can –" He broke off, swallowed, rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes. "His hand," he then said with effort. "Burns. See to them. By God, Valjean, you will – you will not–"

Valjean pulled his hand back hastily. Already Javert's eyes had fallen closed again, although the hard lines around his mouth remained. Maybe, Valjean thought, it was not so much pain that had created these, but fear. Maybe the Inspector feared to sleep with a convict by his bedside. The thought was ludicrous – when had he ever done harm? Had he not brought Javert to his quarters, and called for a doctor to see to his wounds?

And yet, he had also allowed himself to be used as a weapon of degradation. He had been forced to touch Javert at gunpoint, that much was true – but even so, how could he forget the slight tremors that had run through Javert's body at the uninvited touch?

"Your hand, Monsieur," the doctor said, and Valjean was too overcome to resist when his hand as well was cleaned and covered in salve and white bandages. He did not take his eyes off Javert while the doctor worked, numbed by the profound guilt that had taken hold of him again, and in the end, he refused the laudanum the doctor offered, although he could not keep the man from leaving a bottle of the tincture on the nightstand with a pointed look.

"It is not just your friend who needs sleep to recover, Monsieur," the man said before he took his leave, and Valjean was so taken aback that the doctor would consider them friends that he did not even think to argue when he was informed that the doctor expected him to be present for the changing of the bandages the following day.

Valjean looked at the small bottle, then returned to the bedside. Javert still slept, his face lined with pain despite the laudanum. Valjean thought of all the things that were left to do – to find papers for Cosette, to collect the remaining money, ensure that she would be well-provided for – could she return to the convent, would she? She loved the garden; she would find happiness once more behind the  walls of Petit-Picpus; even if she did not feel like taking her vows, she would be safe, she would live in the gardens surrounded by angels, untouched by the evils that would follow Valjean to their doorstep, no matter how careful he was, no matter for how long he ran...

Javert exhaled deeply, his brow creasing for a moment before he settled back into drugged sleep, and Valjean, thinking still about all the things that were left to do to ensure Cosette's safety, found himself settling down by the man's side once more.

\---

He was woken by a small sound. It was dark; there was no candle, and what moonlight fell in through the small window was barely enough to make out the form of Javert beneath the covers. He did not hear the sound again, and for a moment he wondered if he had imagined it. Then Javert's head moved ever so slightly, and Valjean could see wetness gleaming on his face in the sparse light.

Instinct bade him reach out, wipe those tears away, try and offer comfort in the face of such pain. Long years of misery and fear held that new instinct at bay; Cosette's love and trust had taught him tenderness, but life's lessons were harder to overcome, so that for one long moment, he held himself silent and still, regretting his decision to stay.

Then Javert's eyes opened, and for the first time, they did not hold fear or hatred or suspicion as they beheld him, but a raw, naked relief. Valjean knew the look well. It was the relief of a young girl rescued from monsters, the bone-deep relief of waking from a nightmare to find that those monsters were a thing of the past, that her sleep was guarded by the man who had rescued her.

He did not dare to reach out and touch Javert, his fear and the history between them rearing once more as he contemplated the impossible – and yet, then the impossible happened. Javert reached out, his eyes wild and frightened, and his hand covered Valjean's. Valjean shuddered. But there was no force in the touch. Javert's fingers did not clench around his wrist to shackle him once more. Javert's touch was light; his skin was cold and damp with sweat, and there was no threat in the way his fingers curled tentatively against his palm – nothing but a child seeking reassurance against a nightmare, he thought, before his eyes settled on the laudanum on the nightstand once more.

No. It would not do to think so of this man. There was but the drug, and the pain, and the memory of what had happened. And what reassurance could he give?

"You are here," Javert said, and his voice was very soft, and very rough, as if he had wept for a long time before Valjean woke. "I thought I dreamed, at first. It seemed a dream to me. It had to be a dream."

Valjean swallowed. "Javert – forgive me, I had you taken to your room. The men had injured you; you needed a doctor; I–"

"No," Javert said, and although he spoke slowly, his voice was clearer now, as if the effects of the laudanum were slowly fading. "No, I – I know that was no dream. But it seemed to me a dream that I was not alone. That you would not only call a doctor to see to my wounds, but that you would remain– that you,  _you_ – would remain, here, at my bedside – tell me, Valjean, am I awake?"

Valjean hesitated for a long moment. Then, very slowly, his fingers curled tentatively against Javert's, acknowledging his touch, answering the unasked question. I am here, he said. You are awake.

Javert breathed deeply. His eyes closed again, and for a heartbeat Valjean thought that he had slipped back into sleep. Then, with great effort, Javert forced his eyes to open once more, his gaze resting on the bandage that covered Valjean's wound before they slid away again.

“Sleep,” Valjean said, and Javert slowly shook his head. 

“How can I sleep, knowing that you...”

“That I am here?”

“That you are in pain,” Javert said. He blinked wearily, raised a hand to his brow, then winced after a moment when the pain broke through the haze of the laudanum. “You... you were burned. The doctor... It is not right, to act against his orders. No matter how much we... might disagree.” Another deep breath, and Javert struggled once more to force his eyes open. “Take what he gave you.”

“You will not rest otherwise?”

Javert shook his head with visible effort, and Valjean turned to take hold of the bottle of laudanum. The pain of the burn was terrible, but dulled by the incessant roar of his conscience. He did not deserve rest, he thought  with great tiredness , nor to be free of such pains, not when he had earned them by his actions this day.

“Valjean,” Javert said again, his voice very soft now, although his eyes were still half open, and Valjean poured some of the liquid onto a spoon. 

“You will sleep if I take this?” he asked, and though his voice was calm, inside he trembled, imagining himself waking to shackles, to bars, to the endless toil that would wear away at his soul until the day he died.

Javert nodded, weariness and relief mingling on his face, and then his fingers went slack on Valjean's hand when Valjean swallowed the laudanum. He was asleep before Valjean had returned the bottle to the nightstand.

\---

It was still dark when he woke once more. There was a heavy weight on top of him, fast, frightened breathing, and a hand grappling for his throat – and then his eyes became used to the lack of light, and at the same moment he recognized Javert, Javert's eyes widened, and he froze.

“Javert,” he said. He did not move. Javert's hand was still around his throat, but his grip had relaxed. He concentrated on his breathing, willed himself to stay calm, to wait. Javert was drugged. Javert had been hurt, and hurt men were dangerous; they were like animals that way. Javert had always been dangerous, even before, but now Valjean found he could not even make himself run, or fight, or even raise a hand to defend himself. Whatever Javert might decide to do would be deserved, after all...

After a long moment, he realized that Javert's shoulders were shaking. He did not make a sound, although he wondered if he would be able to see the tracks of tears should Javert raise his face. Yet instead, Javert remained in that position for a long time, head bowed, the graying, matted strands of his hair hiding his face from view.

When he at last rolled off Valjean, he covered his face with his hands, and Valjean reached out to carefully touch his shoulder. He licked his lips. He should not have stayed – but also, how could he have left? All of his life, he had striven to do as the Bishop would have done in his place. But the Bishop would never have hurt Javert. The Bishop would not rest here next to Javert, frozen with helplessness, remembering what it felt like to have this man forced to surrender to him, to remember the heat of his mouth when–

Valjean made a sound of torment. “Forgive me,” he said, pulling his hands away in shame. “Forgive me, I – I do not know what to say. Only know that I will not run. Have me in shackles on the morrow, you have my word I will not resist.”

He could hear Javert's labored breathing. Moonlight fell in from the window at last when Javert looked up. “I... I dreamed of the mayor, like...  _that_ , sometimes.” Javert's voice had traces of bitterness in it at the painful confession, but his eyes were dry as he regarded Valjean. “I remembered that, when... You must have felt it.” He looked away for a moment, and Valjean shuddered at the memory. What did that change? It had still been wrong to do their bidding. And Javert – Javert, of all people, had not been at fault. 

Javert's jaw clenched, and Valjean wondered if his thoughts had been that obvious. Javert had never taken gladly to having responsibility for any imagined failings taken from him. “Do not make a martyr of yourself,” Javert said with sudden impatience. “The bullets were meant for both of us. You know it. It was your chance to – to prove that you were the beast I accused you of. It was the same chance you had once before. You did not use your power to destroy me then, because you knew I was right.”

“And today?” Valjean asked quietly. He did not dare to reach out, although Javert's fingers now came to rest lightly on his wrist – and strangely enough, it was a chain he found he was not eager to escape after all.

“Today... I do not know. I cannot think.” Javert's voice was puzzled, but his eyes again returned to the bandage with something that seemed almost fear, and lingered there for a long time. “I do not know. You did not mean to shame me, I know that at least.” He hesitated, then his eyes shied away once more. “It is strange. I should not know that.”

“I should not–” Valjean fell silent. He should not know what Javert felt like inside. He should not have those sounds Javert made burned into his mind like a terrible brand.

Javert exhaled shakily when Valjean did not continue. “You should not,” he said, and there was a great weariness in him. For a moment, Valjean wondered whether he was meant to go now. But Javert's fingers tightened around him, weaker than any chain, more impossible to break, and he remained long after Javert's eyes had closed and he had drifted off to sleep.

Once more, Valjean woke, when the night was very dark and very silent. He was resting on the bed, the pain dulled to a faint throb by the drug that even now sought to pull him back into dreamless sleep. Javert's head was resting against his own, a strand of hair irritating his nose. Valjean moved to brush it away, then found Javert awake, watching him, although he did not move away even now that Valjean had woken.

Javert sighed deeply. “What a strange dream this is,” he murmured. “The laudanum, of course. It is to be expected, dreams, specters, tricks of the mind – yet still, how strange to dream that Jean Valjean has come to watch over my sleep. Of course, he will be gone by the time I wake in the morning. As he should. But a dream cannot be arrested.”

“No,” Valjean said, giving Javert a searching look. Javert just nodded slowly, then closed his eyes once more, and Valjean reached out to very lightly rest his hand on his shoulder.


End file.
